by Rock Lane CooperThis is a work of homoerotic fiction. If you are offended by such material or if you are not allowed access to it under the laws where you live, please exit now. This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be copied or distributed in any form without the written permission of the author, who may be contacted at: rocklanecooper@yahoo.com

Note that these stories, including this one, are not an endorsement of unsafe sex. They take place many years before the appearance of AIDS and before it was standard practice to use condoms to reduce the risk of infection from sexually transmitted diseases. Remember always: that was then, this is now. Sex is precious, and so are life and health.

Chapter 10

A
sheet metal roof for a shed would have made better sense, Randy thought when he
saw the job, but Don had decided on shingles. It gave the ranch some class when
a buyer came around to look at his herd. It was supposed to be a top-notch
operation, and by god, it would look like it.

So
he went to work, with some help from George, who showed him the tool shed and
where to find the extension ladders. George was another man of few words, an
Indian, even more determined than Slim to keep his opinions to himself. Randy's
efforts to get a smile out of him produced not a flicker of a response.

Seeing
his broad features had given Randy a little start, for they made him think of
Wallace. It was an odd twist of fate to be looking into the eyes of a man who
reminded him so much of another man he'd held in his heart for so long.

George's
expressionless face, giving away nothing as he probably took in everything, was
familiar to him. And he knew from knowing Wallace that behind that mask there
could well be enough depth of character to get lost inmore intelligence sometimes
than any white man he'd ever known.

And
the memories that surfaced in him as they worked in silence together were of
the feelings he'd missed for so long of being embraced in the love of that mantheir
nights of lovemaking, naked bodies wrestling together, until wet with
sweat and breathing hard one of them finally yielded to the other and
surrendered his butt to be fucked.

There
had been deep, knowing laughter when each of them came, held in each other's
arms, safe in believing that neither of them would ever be alone. That they
would spend their lives together and have each other as long as there were
breaths to be breathed.

And
his heart ached at the loss of all that.

Don
came by later, inspecting the job, and saw that Randy seemed to know what he
was doing.

"What
do you think, George?" he asked the Indian, who'd brought packs of shingles up to
the roof, carrying them one at a time on his shoulder and setting them down in
neat rows.

They
both stood on the ground, hands on their hips, looking up at Randy. George may
have nodded and said something so quietly that Randy couldn't hear him.

"Good,"
Don said and called out to Randy, "You need anything else, just give a holler."
And the two men walked off. From his view, up on the roof, Randy could see them
going over to where Slim was loading fencing equipment and rolls of wire into
the back of a pickup.

Don,
he noticed, was a head taller than George. He walked with a loose gait in his
long-legged jeans and boots. You'd take him for the boss of the outfit without
knowing anything else. He wore an authority that seemed to come easy to him and
made you respect him.

Randy
thought of all the men on the ranch now and how he fit in with them. He liked each
of them, not an easy accomplishment in a world where working men could just as
easily rub one another the wrong way. And he considered for a while the young
cowboy whose job he now had, who with a misstep and a bad fall off this same
roof had been the reason Randy was here at all.

As
he'd sat at the kitchen table with a big bowl of beef stew Slim had dished up
for him, he'd talked with Chad, who said with some modesty that he was a
bullrider and had managed to make the eight-second timer a couple times.

He
was so unlike most bullriders Randy had ever known. One of them, an earnest
Mormon, would go down on one knee and take off his hat to bow his head in prayer
before every ride, but the rest were mostly hard-drinking, cocky, foul-mouthed
cussers who had women chasing them everywhere they went and didn't let
themselves get chased far. Compared to them, Chad was almost sweetly tempered
and a bit shy.

Unlike
the other hands on the ranch, Chad seemed eager to talk. Being cooped up by
himself in the house all day probably made him hard up for company. And Randy
noticed that he kept turning the conversation around to the boss, Don, and how
much he admired him.

It
was a little more than just admiration, Randy sensed, and he smiled to himself,
wondering if Chad realized how much it sounded like a schoolboy crush. A young
man, he knew, could have those kinds of feelings for someone older, but all the
same it amused him coming from a bullrider. The two things didn't go together.

His
feelings for Don weren't ever going to be that strong, but he did hope the guy
would see fit to keeping him on at the ranch. He already felt that he was going
to like it here.

 § 

Having
Randy in the bunkhouse was going to change things for George and Slim. The two
men had grown closer in the weeks since their weekend in Scottsbluff. During
the days, there had been no difference. They worked either separately or
together as they had always done.

But
the nights were something else. They sat up together, not speaking, just
knowing each other was there in the same room. It was a silence George had
known only on ground he knew as holy, where he felt the presence of his
grandfather and of others long dead he knew hardly at all.

He
had friends on the rez who scoffed at this when he tried to speak of it. But a
few of the older ones knew what he was talking about. The badlands were full of
these places, and maybe what connected his people to the past would be stronger
if the whites had let the Indians keep the badlands instead of finding gold
there and taking it for themselves.

Deadwood.
What a well-earned name for a place of broken promises and a denial of all that
respects the living growth of the human family tree. While he lived and worked
in the white man's world, what kept him alive and not dead, like so many, was
his honoring of those who had spent brave lives on the earth before him.

The
bunkhouse was far from being holy ground, but what he shared there with Slim
was so like what he'd experienced on his returns to the badlands, he knew they
both must be touched by the living spirit of those whose presence he felt when
he went there.

And
unlike the Sunday churchgoers who believed in sin and shrank in fear from
recognizing the hand of a higher power in everything human, he knew that what
he felt for Slim pleased even the Christian god. The only wrong would have been
to never act on those feelings and to deprive both men of life's richest
giftstouch, embracing, sex.

So
silencethis deep silencewas the beginning of what would lead before the
night was over to lovemaking that stirred their souls. And after the first
time, that time in the hotel room bed, the night of Slim's birthday, there had
never been reason to speak again of what they both understood was now truethey
had been meant to find and love each other just like this.

Now,
though it would have happened sooner or later, there was this intruder into
their silence. Don had hired another man to work on the ranch. There would be
three of them in the bunkhouse. He was going to have to have a talk with his
grandfather about that.

He
studied Randy as they worked together, and he tried to see something in him
that wasn't apparent on the surface, something that would explain why he'd been
brought herefor he surely didn't come of his own accord. There had to be a
reason.

There
was nothing wrong with Randy that he could tell. He seemed to be an honest man
and hiding nothing, though there was still something unsettled in him, and the
longer they spent together, the surer George was of it.

There
was that moment when they first looked at each other, and George sensed a flash
of recognition in Randy's eyes, like they'd met somewhere before. But he was
sure they hadn't. Randy said he'd lived all his life in Nevada, and George had
never been out west. He'd never even ventured far from the rez in South Dakota.

But
Randy had been shaken for a momentalmost like he'd seen a ghostand what
kind of ghost could he have seen when he first saw George? One thing for sure,
their eyes had never really met again. Whatever Randy saw, he seemed determined
not to see it again.

When
Don left him alone with Slim, who was loading up the pickup for the fencing job,
he said nothing of what he was thinking until they had got into the truck and Slim
had driven them out to the pasture. When they found a place where a strand of
barb wire was hanging slack on the posts, Slim stopped the truck and turned off
the engine, but he didn't get out right away.

"I
gave the new guy the bunk in the back corner," he said.

"The
one where there's always the spider webs?"

"I
swept them all down with a broom. Don't want him gettin' bit."

"Them
spiders don't bite."

"Maybe
so, but he's a good man, and you treat a good man right."

George
waited a moment before he said, "It ain't gonna be the same with him there."

"Don't
think I don't know that."

"I
been wonderin' maybe he's here for a reason."

"You
know I don't think that way."

"Could
be we need to wait and see."

"I'm
only good at seein' what's plain as day," Slim said. "And what's plain to me is
I'm not gettin' any of your sweet ass as long as he's here."

George
just sat there, wondering what his grandfather would say. Then they stepped out
of the pickup into the cold wind and went to work.

 § 

Don
had got a big calf into a squeeze chute. It had seemed lame in a back leg, he
said, and he was trying to find out if it was from an injury or foot rot, or
something else.

"You
get your bullers sometimes in a feed pen," Don explained to Chad, who had come
from the house to see what he was doing. "They got no balls, but they're
horny as hell anyway, and they're jumpin' on one of the herd like he's a
heifer. First thing you know, one of 'em gets hurt."

Chad leaned his crutches on the fence and put both arms up on the top rail,
watching as Don grappled with the calf's leg.

"Slim
thinks that's what's goin' on here," Don said. "Or could be what we got is an
infection. We'll find out soon enough."

He
was bent over, brushing away the mud and manure to get a look at the hoof. The
seat of his jeans was dirty. It looked like the calf had put up a fight getting
into the chute and knocked him down.

Chad felt helpless, wanting to give Don a helping hand and only being able to
hobble around on one leg himself.

"To
bad we can't just put him on crutches," Don laughed.

He
finally decided that the tissue around the hoof looked healthy. It was probably
an injury that would heal if the calf went into the barn by himself for a
while. He released the chute and, waving his arms and hollering, got the calf
headed through a gate into another pen.

"I
got myself a Thanksgiving to go to," Don said, wiping his hands and flecks of
mud from his face with a big bandana. "Family always gets together in Grand Island.
Slim runs the place whenever I'm gone and does the cooking. Maybe you'd like
to bunk with the rest of the boys so you don't get lonesome up there in the
house all by yourself."

Chad knew he'd be lonesome either way without Don there.

"Course
with the new guy, it's gonna start gettin' crowded in there," Don said. "Tell
you what, I'll see if Slim has another idea."

He
took off his hat now, and brushed at it now, too.

"Slim'll
do the turkey and the trimmings. That's his job every year. Helluva cook, that
man. I keep offering him more money to do all the cookin' here, but he'd rather
cowboy."

He
shoved the bandana into his back pocket and bent to pick up the tools he'd been
using from the ground. Splattered with mud, his boots thick with the dirt and dried
cowshit from the feed pens, he was still a handsome man, Chad thought. Good to look at.

It
was going to be hard knowing that for maybe no more than a couple nights he
would not be there with Chad in the house, quietly working at his desk with a
glass of whiskey at his elbow, then turning in early and sleeping soundly in a
room only a few steps away, his snoring a constant reminder of his presence
throughout the night.

 § 

Kenneth
took Deacon out to his favorite Saturday night bar, and they drank a pitcher of
beer between them as they listened to the North Forty Surfers from a table near
the bandstand, the speakers blaring so loud they made Kenneth's ears ring. It
was a big night at the bar with a noisy crowd that seemed to be getting into
the holiday spirit. There had been cheers as the band segued into a raucous
version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town."

Deacon
grinned as he watched the band and nodded to the music. He was having a good
time, dressed in a black shirt he'd borrowed from Kenneth.

"You
care if I wear this?" he'd asked Kenneth as they got dressed to go out.

"Go
ahead. A girlfriend gave me that years ago and I never liked it."

"Did
you learn to fuck from your girlfriends?"

"Girlfriend.
There was just one."

"She
did a good job."

Deacon
was putting on the shirt and admiring himself in the closet mirror. With his
dark hair and dark looks, the shirt snug around his narrow waist, it suited him.

Before
Kenneth had taken a showerDeacon getting in with himthey had gone to the
bedroom, Deacon laying him out flat on the bed and sucking his cock until he
was ready to come and then, after kicking off his jeans, trading places to get
under him.

"I
don't have any K-Y," Kenneth said, and without a word Deacon had turned on his
side to squeeze more precum from Kenneth's cock, then rubbed it with some spit
into his pucker as he flopped again onto his belly, legs spread wide apart.

The
sex had been over in a hurry, and Kenneth had lain there on top of Deacon after
he came, aware of little besides the dizzying waves of feeling that spread
through his body. There had been no time to think about what he was doing as it
happened, and now that it was done, his mind remained a blank. This thing he
didn't want to happen had happened anyway, and while he might have felt regret, he
felt nothing.

It
seemed only a matter of course that Deacon would then flip him over onto his
back, and do the same for Kenneth, his ankles pushed almost to his ears as
Deacon thrust as easily as he could into him, the discomfort never really yielding
to pleasure.

But
lying there afterwards, numb, their bodies spent and flung together, he felt
that he had crossed over into some new country. Deacon, he realized, was a
native here and already teaching Kenneth all he knew. And looking back, Kenneth
could see that what he'd clung to as home was just an imaginary place he would
have had to give up one way or another.

The
band had swung into a medley of Beatles covers, and the two of them had joined
the dancers on the small dance floor as the lead singer began belting out
"Twist and Shout." There were some couples there, but most simply melted into
a single gyrating mass of human bodies.

Deacon,
still wearing his cowboy hat, swung his ass and rocked from side to side,
catching Kenneth's eye every now and then and giving him a sly grin. What they
had done was wrongEllis had trusted them together, and they'd let him
downbut here they were anyway, dancing like there was no tomorrow.

 § 

Being
the new guy, Randy was well aware that he was disrupting a routine in the
bunkhouse that may as well have been set in stone somewhere. He would have to
find a way of fitting in with Slim and George so he wouldn't be in the way.
That meant watching how everything was done and figuring things out without
having to be told or asking too many questions.

There
was a closeness between Slim and George that always meant Randy would be an
outsider. He could tell that they already shared a long history that had knit
them together as partners. And he could expect them to protect that.

A
washroom had been built into the bunkhouse, not long ago by the looks of it,
with a toilet and a shower. It was enough for two men, but with a third there'd
be some jockeying, and Randy knew he'd have to be sure the other men always came
first.

He
put his carry bag under his bed and unpacked only what would fit into a little
cabinet Slim had told him was his if he wanted. His coat and hat hung on the
wall beside the other men's. He made sure there was no other sign of him around
the room.

After
years of living on his ownand for a time with Wallacethis was going to
take some getting used to. But it was only temporary, he kept telling himself,
maybe through the winter if Don would keep him on. He'd make a little money to put
in the bank and then head back to Nevada.

There
was his uncle's ranch to still think of, even though there'd be no Wallace to
ranch with him. Maybe he'd find somebody else. Or maybe he'd just be a bachelor
rancher like his uncle and live out his days there, with some horses and a
couple dogs for company.

At
supper in the house, Don had mentioned that he'd be gone a couple days for
Thanksgiving, and he told Slim there was a turkey in the freezer and to help
himself to anything else he found there.

Then
he asked Slim if he thought there'd be room for a fourth man in the bunkhouse,
so Chad wouldn't be by himself for the holiday.

"Sure,
there's a extra bed out there," Slim said. "Won't take long to fix it up real
nice."

Randy
noticed that George had kept his attention on the plate in front of him, eating
his steak and potatoes and only putting his fork down to take a mouthful of
coffee.

"Sir,
I've been thinkin'," Chad said, his voice pitched about an octave above Slim's.
"There's no need to go to any trouble for me. I'll be OK right here where I
am."

"We
can't leave you all by yourself," Don said. "Long as you're on them crutches,
and you ain't healed up yet,
we'd all be sorry as hell if you needed some help in the middle of the night
and there was nobody here."

Randy
kept glancing back and forth at Slim and George, looking for some sign of what
they were thinking, but it was impossible to tell.

Finally
he raised his hand and said, "I know I'm just new here, but it wouldn't be any
trouble for me to stay with Chad until you get back."

Slim
looked over at him and then to Don, waiting before he said anything.

"What
do you think, Slim?" Don said.

"You
can trust this man," Slim said.

Don
just nodded and then looked at Randy. "Then that's what we'll do."

Randy
marveled at what just happened. On the strength of Slim's word, Don was letting
him, almost a complete stranger, stay in his house while he was gone.

He
looked around the table at the men who sat there. There was an unspoken bond
among them that he sensed each would honor, no matter what. And he knew he
wanted to be with themto be one of them.

 § 

"I
think we oughtta go out and at least say hello," Ty said.

He
and Rich had spent hours together in bed, making love, having a nap, making
love again, napping some more. Rich lay now beside him, sleepy-eyed, arms
behind his head on the pillow. His hair fell in every direction, and Ty reached
to push it from his forehead.

"You
think so?" Rich said smiling. "I think they know the two of us are doing just
fine."

Ty
slipped his hand now under the covers and stroked Rich's chest, feeling the
hair under his fingers and finding a nipple.

"Do
anything. I'm yours," Rich had said once when there was still daylight
filtering in through the window. Now, with the bed lamp glowing softly over
their heads, he had that same look on his face.

Ty's
hand stroked down over Rich's belly, dried cum matted into the hair over his
cock. They'd been fierce lovers, their hunger for each other scarcely satisfied
before reaching to one another again.

"I
love you," Rich said so often there was no way of counting the times. "You
don't have to love me back. Just be here and never go away again."

"I
do love you," Ty said, and he knew with all his heart that he did.

He
held Rich's cock in his hand now, feeling it stiffen and fill with desire.

"You're
quite the little fucker," Rich said with a laugh. "Have you been getting
practice while you were gone?"

"Never."

"It's
OK, you can lie to me."

"I'd never do that either."

Rich
reached with his hand and cradled the side of Ty's face, his thumb stroking his
cheek. Then, cupping his hand behind Ty's head, he pulled Ty to him and kissed
him, gently at first and then more deeply.

"Promise
you won't leave me again," he said.

Ty
thought for a moment and then said, "It was you who left me, remember?"

"Was
it?" Rich said, giving him an odd look. "Shit, it was." His hand fell away from
Ty's face and he dropped back onto the pillow.

"I
am so, so sorry," he said.

"No,
no, no," Ty said, leaning over him now to stay close. "I shouldn't have
said that."

"Fuck,
a man needs to say the truth, and that was the truth."

"I'm
the one who gave up on you. I should have waited for you."

Rich
shook his head. "You had every right to give up on me. I fucked up good."

"I'll
let you say that once. But not again."

Rich
looked at him and smiled. "OK, and maybe some day I'll stop thinking it."

"All
you want. But I wanna go out and say hello to Mike and Danny." He could hear
them down the hall watching TV. "This is their place, after all."

"OK, stop
bustin' my balls."

Rich
threw off the covers and swung his legs out of bed. Ty didn't move for a moment,
gazing at Rich's naked back and his broad shoulders, just as he'd remembered
them night after night back at home in Iowa, wishing for dreams of this man as
he waited for sleep to come.

Then
Rich was on his feet, bending down to pick up his jeans from the floor. And Ty
got up, too.

"How'd
your clothes get on this side of the bed?" Rich said, tossing Ty's pants
and shirt over to him.

"It
was you who took them off me. You should know."

"Floor's
cold. You'll need your socks," Rich said and tossed them, too. "First
thing when I get some money, I'm going to have wall-to-wall put down in here. Not
just for mefor both of us."

Ty
was stuffing in his shirt and zipping up his pants. For both of us, he thought.
He liked the sound of that.

There
was a late movie on TV, and Mike and Danny were sitting together in Mike's
La-Z-Boy, with a bowl of popcorn. They each had a beer. Mike swatted Danny on
the butt to get him off his lap, and he jumped up to get the two men some of their
own. He was half-way to the kitchen before either of them could say yes or no.

But
Ty was hungry, and having a beer with Mike was always at the heart of his
memories of being in this house. Sitting down on the couch with Rich, who put
his arm across his shoulders, he let himself feel the pleasure of just being
here.

"You
wanna know something?" Rich said, when Mike came back with more popcorn and
beers. "I love this guy. I really love him."

And
Ty felt that the worldfor all its faults and failurescould never
offer him more than just this.

Continued . . .

More stories. There are links to all the Mike and Danny stories, YouTube videos, and a MySpace blog, plus pictures of the characters and some cowboy poetry at the Rock Lane Cooper home page. Click here.